#Lewes poets

[saintsupertramp]

Soldier Poet King absolutely fits Stirling, Paddy and Jock but not in the way you would expect. Like Paddy is poet, right? WRONG he’s the soldier but he Wants to be the poet do you understand? He’s the foot soldier he’s the dog for Stirling and Jock who goes and tears cities down. Stirling is the poet because he’s always throwing out banger lines and because of his whole speech in the first ep but he’s really the king because he’s leading them all. And then poor Jock is the king because of his proximity to god, he’s always reciting prayers and seems the strongest out of all of them but in the end he’s just a soldier who will die out in the desert for his cause. They make me a bit sick in the head.

[butchhamlet]

do you have any good shakespeare retelling book recs?

what a beautiful time to ask this, says guy who has left this ask collecting cobwebs in his inbox for months! because guess who has two thumbs and just finished queen goneril by erin shields! WHAT a fucking play, holy SHIT, this is some of the best characterization of the lear sisters that i've ever read and the exploration of womanhood as filtered through class + race + shitty families + political maneuvering is so so so good. also the things shields does with the og playtext... chef's fucking KISS

anyway, recency bias aside, i've been meaning to make a post about my favorite shakespeare retellings for a while, and i think i never actually did it because i wanted to make a lear retelling ranking list and then i never read some of the ones on my TBR. so whatever. the learlist will happen someday. here are my favorites in general. (here is my goodreads shelf for the retellings i've read, good and bad, and here is the shelf for the ones i have yet to read.)

in no particular order:

a thousand acres by jane smiley: outsold. epitome of what makes an effective retelling--a book that clearly has something to say about and to the original text, but that also isn't afraid to diverge, to exclude here and zoom in there. ungraciously, this is "lear on a farm" and it starts a little slow, but holy fucking shit, i can't do justice in a paragraph to the way this book unraveled me. one of the best books of all time mayhaps. also, introduced the edmund character by describing his ass. 10/10

the last true poets of the sea by julia drake: i don't read that much YA anymore but jesus fucking christ. books tailored for me specifically. twelfth night retelling about siblings + mental illness + being bisexual + love triangles that actually make sense (emotions are confusing!) instead of being contrived + beautiful description + excellent dialogue + THE MENTAL ILLNESS. books that made me start crying in zoom class in 2020

rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead by tom stoppard: kind of a cop-out answer because we all know this one. but that does not detract from how good it is. this is one of those plays, at least for me, that makes me think, "ohhhhhh, THIS is what theater can do. this is using its medium to the absolute utmost." it is so clever and it makes me want to cry. i think about "i don't know. it's the same sky" more often than i can say

american moor by keith hamilton cobb: not exactly a retelling, but a one-man play about a Black man auditioning for the lead role in Othello, tangling as he does with his relationship with shakespeare's work and cultural dominance. suuuuuch a good fucking play even beyond the analysis of othello (which is excellent); the language is so fucking incredible. everyone who likes shakespeare should read this.

teenage dick by mike lew: modern teenage richard iii; this one's more reimagining than retelling, because it diverges pretty sharply from the plot of richard iii, but god, it's so fucking fun. and upsetting! really upsetting also.

foul is fair by hannah capin: i will be so real. i read this in high school and some of the YA books i've revisited since did not hold up for me. so idk if i can tell you this is "good" with my full chest. but the pitch is "lady macbeth gets sexually assaulted at a party and decides to fucking kill the boys who did it" and i stayed up until like 1am to finish it because it was such a vicious gleaming wild ride

the stars undying by emery robin: does this count? hard to say, because it's just as much a retelling of roman history than shakespeare's antony and cleopatra (honestly, more, since it focuses on the era where caesar and cleopatra were lovers, which is before shakespeare's play). but i'm counting it anyway because it's bisexual space opera cleopatra and it's the best book i've read so far in 2024 and it's making me crazy and i'm writing a thesis on it < genuinely

peerless by jihae park: macbeth, but college applications, featuring asian macbeths (they're twin sisters >:3) who think their classmate has taken their place in their dream school because of affirmative action/DEI. this play is absolutely VICIOUS. it's macbeth x heathers. think it mirrors macbeth in faltering a little in its final stretch, but it still fucks hard

the wednesday wars by gary d. schmidt: okay, not a retelling; this is about a preteen boy in the 60s. but it's one of the best most genuine and heartwarming books i've ever read and it manages to be hilarious while also foregoing cheap slapstick punching-low humor for a hell of a lot of warmth and passion. and the main character interacts with shakespeare a lot as a running theme so i can justify putting it on this list. #evangelizing

of course, i would be remiss not to mention that @suits-of-woe / @mjulianwrites has written the best take on Two Gentlemen of Verona to ever exist, and i mean that quite seriously. unfortunately it hasn't been published yet so we'll all just have to prayer-circle about it. i would also be remiss not to take the opportunity to. uh. coughs. do a bit of casual self-promo. if you 1. have ocd 2. have gender or 3. think about malvolio a lot. boy do i have the novella for you

will definitely add to this when i read more retellings; feel free to drop recs in the tags/replies/reblogs/my askbox!

[gothicgaycowboy]

Lew character’s letterboxd top 4

Just though this would a fun idea, I’ll definitely be doing other characters in the future <3

bob: star wars, dead poets society, walk the line, up.

rhett: no country for old men, mad max fury road, logan, stand by me.

calvin: mikey and nicky, blade runner, inside llewyn davis, the panic in needle park.

miles: before sunrise, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, walle, good will hunting.

harrison: raging bull, aftersun, boogie nights, sound of metal.

[torchflies]

More Scotish!Mav headcanons please????

*breaks open my notes after a shitty day* 

Thank goodness somebody asked!!!!!

All my love @immacaria ❤️❤️🥹

Maverick can Highland dance, really really well. He was a hyperactive little shit so his uncles brought in a tutor who taught him the Highland Fling, the Sword Dance, the Seann Triubhas and the Reel of Tulloch. Those are competition dances and I've linked some examples below under the cut. He’s also great at the “Irish jig” and the “Sailor’s Hornpipe” (the latter of which is done in a sailor suit and the flyboys never let him live the pictures down). 

He is decent at the pipes (Great bagpipes), by that I mean he whined through ten years of lessons and plays it ceremonially, because it was cute at the time and none of his uncles wanted to do it. 

All of Scotland calls him their “bonnie wee prince” and “wee Prince Paddy” even though Mav is well into his twenties. He is the country’s bairn, their communal little boy. He also very much hates this fact. 

He has been betrothed six times, and not a single arrangement has lasted past the point of the little lass meeting him. 

When Cougar left the Navy to be with his wife and little girl, he lost everything with it (housing, insurance, etc). So Mav made a call to his Uncle Jamie with a fresh round of crocodile tears and now Cougar’s little girl is growing up in a rural Scottish castle. “You’re always saying I skirt my duties, well, I found the perfect substitute to take care of Lews in my stead!” 

Also Slicemav is my favorite thing in the world and I have somehow managed to create the perfect Soldier (Sailor), Poet, King configuration with these three and I'm so excited for you guys to read it. 

If I haven't made it abundantly clear — Angus and Mav’s mother were twins, and he's consumed with guilt over her death. In fact, all the uncles are. Fergus because he feels like he broke her heart, angry that she wanted to go and told her if she went he'd never speak to her again. Jamie because he was so consumed with doing what his father wanted, that he missed how unhappy she was. Then, adding insult to injury, their father never recovers from her death and he dies soon after, thrusting Jamie onto the throne in his twenties. 

Mav inherits the throne by default, the same way Queen Victoria got hers — by simply being the only living child

Thank you dear!!!!!!

Links!

[mercurygray]

hi merc, and happy new year! may i ask for “silver candlesticks” + dick and joan (and nix?) + the revolutionary war au?

Try as he might, he could not remember the bullet.

Roe had said that was the way of it, sometimes, the shock of the wound taking over all else, and told him not to worry about it. Lew had said it was better that way, though what Lew knew of wounds and bullets and being shot Dick really couldn't say. But his friend did know something about forgetting - and perhaps it was of himself he spoke, since he'd been there, too, and had been the one to help get Dick on the horse and back to camp.

But Dick could not remember any of that - only of waking up in this house, in this bed, being fussed over by Roe and having the commander come to pay his respects and wish for a speedy recovery for one of his beloved Life Guards. Shot during the retreat - a clean wound, but one that would keep him abed for a good while it healed.

It was too much and all at once - a bed when many were without roofs or tents, a fire and fixed meals when many were without uniforms and blankets. He was in the lap of luxury here compared to the rest of the Army, with silver candlesticks and tapers of good wax at his bedside, and a fine wool blanket on the bed.

Yeah, Lew had said with a grin. And we found you the only great house on the Schuylkill with a pretty girl in it.

Dick blushed and fumed for that, too - both because Lew was right, and because it seemed to him a grave oversight to call Miss Warren merely a pretty girl, when she was the same age as him and therefore not a girl, and far more than merely pretty.

Not, of course, that he would admit to any of that aloud. Distractions over female beauty were for Lew to crow over, or Harry, at a stretch, but not for him. Especially for this woman - the niece of his host! Herr General von Pfershing - retired from King Frederick's wars and now living the life of a gentleman farmer with a heavy interest in military strategy. (Dick had been helping himself to the few books in the General's library that were in English rather than German.) Lew had said that was a stratagem, too - an excuse for Washington to pay his respects to the old man under the guise of visiting Dick and ask for his opinion - but Dick wasn't so sure of that. And if it was, he felt certain the old Prussian would have foxed that out by now - just as he was sure the man would have noticed if the soldier in his guest room was making eyes at his niece.

There was a knock at the door. "Captain Winters? Are you awake?"

He struggled for a moment against his pillows, trying in vain to sit up a little straighter. He was undressed - and while it didn't matter much to him to be seen in his shirtsleeves, to be seen in bed by a woman felt like a grave offense. Especially this bed, and by this woman…whom I haven't just been thinking of.

Too late - she had come in, and he made a last-ditch attempt to make sure that at most of his anatomy was sufficiently covered, though there was nothing to be done for his naked leg, outside of the blankets so that the wound might heal. "Please don't trouble! I…only came to see if you needed anything. There's dinner, if you're hungry." She held up the tray in her hands.

"You shouldn't - a servant could have - " He could see Lew laughing now in his corner - Served by the daughter of the house - what an honor.

Miss Warren seemed to think nothing of it. "You are my guest, Captain Winters. It seems the least I can do, since I've been of very little help otherwise."

She let herself in and set down the tray at his bedside - a bowl of soup and a spoon, carefully laid on a napkin. Dick's heart lurched a little watching the firelight fall on the curve of her neck, carefully covered with a muslin scarf, setting off the dark color of her hair and the little wisps that emerged from the back of her head. Dark and fair, that was what a poet would have called her, for she was both. He made sure, again, that his shirt was closed, and then tried to be still.

"I had a letter," she shared, looking down at her hands. "From a Miss Annie Winters. She…had my name from a letter of yours, I think, and thanked me for the care I was giving to her brother, since your parents would not let her come herself. I thought I should try to be worthy of her gratitude."

Oh, Annie! "Whatever my sister may have said, I… release you from the obligation." He fumbled for the right words. "Your family has already been more than kind."

"It was not obligation," she replied pleasantly. "It only… reminded me that if my brother or cousin were injured I would want the same for them. Someone to bring a hot meal, and a willing smile. So here I am."

Would that you were not! Dick silently berated Annie again - what had she said? His sister was given to romantic nonsense, and he hated to think what she had written to Miss Warren. Bad enough that he had his own tender feelings to hide without Annie adding fat to the fire. A willing smile! She was smiling now, and he thought it might end him.

She took his silence as an invitation. "I saw your man Roe on his way out yesterday. He said that your leg's mending well."

Dick nodded, still trying to at least sit up, mindful, again, that it was his naked leg she was observing, the whole long pale length of it with its bandage outside the sheet, as though legs did not lead …anywhere else on his body that he did not at this moment both not want her to see and wished to high heaven she would. "Yes. Hopefully it will be …healed soon and your house can return to its…usual patterns. Without all of the…comings and goings of strange men."

Miss Warren gave a small laugh. "My uncle is a soldier, Captain Winters. Our house is forever full of strange men." She paused a moment and glanced at him a moment before returning her eyes elsewhere. "And …you are not strange," she said carefully. "At least any longer. The steward knows your names, and the houseboys know who to ask for sweets, and my uncle invites Captain Nixon to drink his brandy and play chess."

Dick scoffed. Trust Lew to find an excuse to drink and shirk his duties in camp. Or was that another stratagem of Washington's - the clever intelligence officer learning all he could from the old warhorse. "Poor excuses for soldiers."

"It is winter quarters, Captain. You can hardly expect to do anything else. It is a time to…regroup, and recover, and plan."

He glanced at the book on his bed - hadn't he just been reading that? "It appears you know more of soldiering than I do."

She shook her head. "Only encampments, and what I read in my uncle's books. And now …this war. Which you have seen and I have not. Except from Philadelphia drawing rooms, and this house."

Her tone made him pause, and he took a moment to study her while her eyes were on the fire. "You say that as though you regret it."

Her eyes snapped back to him and he felt trapped again. Ask me to carve out my heart and I'd do it. "I regret not being of more use, Captain Winters. Sitting at home and sewing may do well for other women but it does not do well for me. I do not like to have others do my fighting for me." She took a breath and hardened her smile. "I can…raise funds for the Congress, and keep my uncle's table for the men who come here for his advice, but it does not feel enough."

I would make it be enough for you, if I could - and kiss that brow and that cheek to seal it so, and - enough! He made a fist in his sheets, nails just digging into his palm through the linen. But as he did so he thought he could see another way, another woman - booted and spurred like a cavalryman, splendid in breeches and blue and gold. (He knew already she was a good horsewoman, but the image of her in breeches did nothing to help him.) "You have…made a safe place for us to rest so we can fight another day. That seems enough to me."

"You're kind to say so, Captain." She paused and seemed to remember herself, drawing a breath and letting it out again. "My apologies. I spoke of willing smiles and brought none and now I have stayed too long and the soup will be cold." For a moment he thought to ask her to stay, but he did not trust himself to do it. "Thank you, again. I will tell my sister I have the best care. That will be enough for her. And for me," he added, the words rushing out of his mouth. He still could not remember the battle, but he would remember her smile entirely.

[scarriestmarlowe]

some sketch requests for the holidays!

there’s many, MANY more lol.

(from left to right;

my buddy wyll’s (@riverrcottage) tf2 oc recon, & my guy juice

an npc (judith) + the pc posessing her (janus, owned by @greylight32) from my tuc x tma themed call of cthulu campaign

kelsasha (kelsey owned by @dndadsbara) getting chinese takeout for christmas

nicholas/electro & lark/doc oak from my dndads fic portrait of the poet as a young spider

my buddy dio’s orphic phosphenes PC (francis)

sandman (hermie) and spidergoth from potpaays!

my buddy wyll’s orphic phosphenes pc, kody, pregnant with his third child

my buddy joseph’s orphic phosphenes oc, hugo

my buddy lew’s kids on brooms pc, sal, and her girlboyfriendrivalcrush chance

all the characters from my mouthwashing themed call of cthulu campaign getting STONED

[wiltedprayers]

Lewis Nixon as a poetry movement: The objectivists.

so, I thought it'd be nice if I did a little analysis of Lew's character through different periods of poetry— to be more precise, modernist poetry (late 19th century-mid 20th century). Nix was a socialite and Yale student, so he probably went on to study the classics and more cemented poetry movements like Renaissance poetry and (maybe) the English romantics. however, considering the nature of his character (and I am talking about the HBO dramatized version, not the real-life Lewis Nixon), I think he'd be more interested and moved by the contemporary poets of his time (early 20th century). this is especially because of their disruptive philosophy regarding poetry: the avant-garde movements of the time (which included poetry, but also extended to theater, film, and plastic art) were many, incredibly present in the politics of the period, and brought a new perspective to the study of poetry that remained throughout the century.

the objectivists, which were not exactly a 'movement' and more of a small group of like-minded individuals, believed in the sincerity and objectification of poetry: they treated the poem as an object and had an intelligent approach to their writings, greatly inspired by the previous Imaginist movement and the history contained within their poetry.

the core group of objectivist poets consisted of Louis Zukofsky, Carl Rakosi, Charles Reznikoff, Basil Bunting, Lorine Niedecker, William Carlos Williams, and George Oppen. they were most present during the 1930s.

their poems were characterized by line breaks that disrupted a normal speech rhythm and had deliberate syntactic fragmentation (something present in 19th century Emily Dickinson's poetry, for example). they weren't inherently absurd (like Dada poetry) and usually touched heavily on political topics, given that most of them were left-wing and/or Marxists. they exploited small and everyday words like 'The', 'Is', and 'A'.

excerpt from Louis Zukofsky's "'A'—22":

why do I think Nix would've enjoyed their poetry? well, for one, I think he would've appreciated the innovation and simple wording used to convey strong emotional points; Nix, unlike characters like Webster, doesn't believe in flowery language and always came across to me as a concise, fast man. he held no love for his years at Yale and always looked at things from a different perspective which, in my opinion, is what made him such a fitting intelligence officer. I think Nix would've been attracted to the objectifying nature of this type of poetry; seeing the poem as a real thing in a way in which it allows us to be sincere with ourselves.

it's worth mentioning that most objectivists came from poverty or marginalized backgrounds, which greatly influenced their writing. naturally, there'd be a real dissonance between Nix and these topics for obvious reasons, but there's no reason to think he'd be put off by them. if anything, I see Nix as a learner, an observer, a very curious man. this is all conjecture of course, but treading into more modern and avant-garde art movements seems like something he'd do in an attempt to distance himself from his structured 'prep school' type of education. while Nix is not precisely a rebel, he's also not one stuck in ancient conventions, and he's not afraid to defy authority (see his reticence regarding sobel and sometimes sink, his approval of Dick's fake patrol, etc). he'll adapt very nicely to social etiquette because that's the environment in which he was raised, sure, but he doesn't really care for it.

excerpt from Carl Rakosi's "In What Sense I Am I", which I think fits Nix’s character rather nicely:

we can see the disjuncture in the way Rakosi presents his sentences, purposefully creating an organized mess of his paragraph to make his poem seem like its building itself off piece by piece; this is just so incredibly Nix in my opinion.

another poem, this time a piece by Lorine Niedecker:

once again, the structure of the poem is loose, and very short. It's concise and to the point; Niedecker's use of "Ah" also showcases the objectivist poetry style, one where everyday expressions and simple sounds take center stage.

to wrap this up, I think Lewis Nixon (as a character!) would be much inclined to a certain type of poetry present mainly in the modernist period of the early 20th century. one that's disruptive, innovative, and contemporary, that isn't afraid to focus on an intelligent use of prose by the poet; this poetry movements (imagism, objectivism, and early confessional poetry) are very tied to their sociopolitical context, and fundamentally change the discipline, which will continue to evolve artistically throughout the rest of the 1900s.

if you'd like me to analyze other BoB (or even the Pacific) characters through poetry and art, please let me know! gotta admit, I wrote this in a frenzy at 3am because I just could not stop thinking about a fictional character's likely poetic inclinations. would appreciate any kind of contribution on this subject too! this is, of course, just my opinion :) feel free to disagree!

[inglourious-imagines]

The Pacific Masterlist

Robert Leckie:

War Poet

Crackers & Jam

Eugene Sledge:

Home, Sweet Home

Saved

Sidney Phillips:

Ireland Whiskey

Movie's Magic

Bill "Hoosier" Smith:

Shirt Incident

Tattoos

Charlie

Secretly in Love

Stubborn Lovers: Part One, Part Two (completed)

Glances

Heat & Shirts

Mysterious

Stay with Me

Andrew "Ack Ack" Haldane:

Foxhole Love

Missing Piece

Spy Soldier

Edward "Hillbilly" Jones:

Let Me Love You

By Your Side

October 10, 1944

Lew "Chuckler" Juergens:

Love Me Tender

Wilbur "Runner" Conley:

Confessed

[infiniterichesinalittleroom]

That poem was on the cover of my album A Crow Looked at Me, for very personal reasons. My wife who died, Geneviève, had a postcard with that poem letter-pressed on it tacked to the wall in her studio. I don’t even know where she got it. She was pen-pals with Joanne, she wrote to her… They were even working on a long-form zine together. It was going to be called Old People (Joanne hated the name). Geneviève had the idea of publishing an interview zine, focusing on older working artists that were still engaged in craft. We drove down to Bolinas and saw Joanne the last few years of her life. Anyway, I was cleaning out Geneviève’s studio after she died, some months after, and that poem was on the wall. It struck me as being relevant to what was happening. Life and death, posterity, present and the past. I took a picture and used it as the album cover. Years later, I realized it: Oh, weird, that album has this other title on the cover. It has this title, Night Palace on it, as a second title. Maybe I need to make an album called Night Palace to use up that seed that has been planted. It’s not even about that poem resonating beyond that one record, it’s those words, “Night Palace,” they’re so resonant and powerful. There’s a lot to be explored there. That’s the zone I’ve been in the last few years. I’m not exactly sure what this is, this “Night Palace” thing—or this like “Mount Eerie” thing. These different, resonant words that have a feeling; it’s distinct to me but isn’t easily articulated. That’s my art process, trying to articulate this thing that feels big and important to me. But you asked how I got into Joanne Kyger! I’m into her scene of poets. Late Beats, the Californian, back-to-the-land poets: Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, Lew Welch. The countercultural movement of the 60’s and 70’s, and the Pacific Northwest contingent. I remember being a kid and seeing these older poets around and knowing this cool thing was happening. It does feel personal to me. In a way, it’s part of my lineage.

Phil Elverum

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 12.15

Beer Birthdays

John Fritsch (1827)

Joseph Fallert (1841)

Kathy Kersh, Miss Rheingold 1962 (1942)

Chuck Noll (1958)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Alex Cox; film director, actor (1954)

Gustave Eiffel; Frech engineer (1832)

Stan Kenton; jazz bandleader (1911)

Helen Slater; actor (1963)

Ludwig Zamenhof; linguist, Esperanto creator (1859)

Famous Birthdays

Maxwell Anderson; playwright (1888)

Bapu; Indian artist, film director (1933)

Henri Becquerei; French physicist (1852)

Adam Brody; actor (1979)

Nick Buoniconti; Miami Dolphins LB (1940)

Melanie Chartoff; actor (1948)

Dave Clark; pop singer (1942)

Buddy Cole; jazz pianist (1916)

Tim Conway; comedian, actor (1933)

J.M. DeMatteis; comic book writer (1953)

Charles Duryea; automobile pioneer (1861)

Freeman Dyson; physicist (1923)

Niels Ryberg Finsen; Danish physicist (1860)

Alan Freed; disc jockey (1922)

J. Paul Getty; gazillionaire businessman (1892)

Lew Grade; film producer (1906)

Friedrich Hundertwasser; artist (1928)

Don Johnson; actor (1949)

Nero; Roman emperor (37 C.E.)

Edna O'Brien; Irish writer (1930)

George Romney; artist (1734)

Muriel Rukeyser; poet (1913)

Kurt Schaffenberger; comic book artist (1920)

Betty Smith; writer (1896)

Paul Simonon; rock bassist (1955)

[lewis-winters]

Last Line(s) tag

thank you to @almost-a-class-act and @hellofanidea for the tag! sorry I only answered now it slipped my mind.

Um. Ok. So. I haven't been working on any stuff lately because ✨Depression✨ so I clicked on a random word document for this. So. Here's the last few paragraphs from a Winnix fic I left unfinished in 2021, based off the indie film Private Romeo:

It’s funny, Dick thinks. Funny how little they have in common, poor Romeo and he. The fancies of youth have never taken a hold of him before, not the way it has this boy, with his heart on his sleeve, daring the world to break it and make him into something poetry and songs could claim. Moving through the world with his head down and his hands as busy as he could get them, Dick always thought it wiser to keep his heart tucked in and away, protected and only feeling what his head would let it, fueling it with nothing but determination and character, building it all upon the moral compass so carefully handed down to him through the wisdom of the generations. He’d been a good son, staying carefully in his lane, living life according to the words of his parents, understanding their discipline to be an expression of their love and honoring them best he can. He never crashed parties he wasn’t invited too. He never made friends with those who drank their weight in alcohol. He never allowed himself to pine after those he could never have.

Or at least he didn’t, until now.

The moon is forgiving tonight, shining gently through the window of their tiny room to caress the sweet swell of Lewis’ cheek and the proud slope of his nose. His dark brows are drawn together in a frown, the corners of his lips downturned in distress. Dreaming again—of what, Dick isn’t sure. Lewis never tells. But it doesn’t stop the need in him to reach out and touch, soothe away the pain with the pad of his thumb, allowing the rest of his fingers to cradle Lew’s cheek, run themselves through the thick of his steel black hair.

Now that he thinks about it, they’d met very similarly to this, on that little patch of gentle sun that appeared every afternoon on that grassy hill behind their barracks in Fort Benning. Dick remembers it just like it were yesterday, perhaps because he holds on to the memory the way Lew holds on to his flask, taking it out for a sip every now and again, to feel the addictive rolling, crashing wave of warmth course through him until he feels it all in the crown of his head to his toes.

Lew had been dozing, left behind on a rare weekend when the bars and pubs of the nearby town could not hold his attention for long. Asleep, he looked his age, smoothed out and serene and boyish; long, black lashes fanning across his tan cheeks with a sweetness that made Dick want to kiss them until they fluttered open to reveal those large, brown eyes he’d been dutifully trying to keep out of his thoughts. He did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead, he’d shimmied down the slope to hover over this boy he’d only ever seen in passing, but whose image he’d always followed with his eyes, inexplicably drawn, and shaken his shoulder until he’d awoken, staring up at Dick with confusion.

“Hi?” he’d said, groggy. And that was the beginning.

Dick had never thought that his own love might be something poets would sing of. Never thought of it burning or hurting so keenly, drowning him in yearning and want. He always thought his love would be straight forward and simple.

Now, with his eyes slipping shut as he watches the steady rise and fall of Lew’s chest, he realizes that that, too, had been its own kind of foolishness.

And I'll tag whoever wants to do it!

[butchhamlet]

are there any shakespeare retellings you recommend? i really enjoy retellings but it's also difficult to find ones that like. actually understand the source material... i've read your novella duodecimal and really liked it btw! excellent take on twelfth night :-)

THANK YOU SO MUCH WAH... yes, i can recommend some retellings! i keep intending to make a big post with my recs, actually, but there are so many out there that i haven't read yet... so for now here's an incomplete list:

a thousand acres by jane smiley: the first one that came to my mind seeing this ask. it's a retelling of lear set on an american farmstead, and the adaptation is done beautifully and smoothly--it's just distinct enough from OG Lear that you can judge it as a book on its own but also as a lear retelling. and it's sooooo good. it starts a little slow, but the character work is so excellent and it almost made me cry (i will note that there's a pretty hefty cw on this one but... saying what it is is technically spoilers? but feel free to send another ask or message if you want to know up-front)

the last true poets of the sea by julia drake: books that made me have to turn my camera off in zoom class so i could bawl properly. books written for me specifically. this is a loose YA retelling of twelfth night (looser than some of the other retellings on this list) and it's like. perfect. the teenage dialogue actually sounds like teenagers. every emotional beat clubbed me over the head. the love triangle is present--and done really well; it's not present for drama but because sometimes being a teenager is confusing--but more than that this is a book about the relationship between violet and her sibling, and about mental health, and god it makes me CRAZY. also girls kiss in this one

rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead by tom stoppard: i mean. i think most people into shakespeare know r&gad. but in case you haven't read it yet, it's an absurdist play from the point of view of rosencrantz and guildenstern and it's absolutely fucking brilliant. not sure what else to say about this; you've really just gotta read it

teenage dick by mike lew: another play, this one on the modern side--a retelling of richard iii set in a high school, focusing explicitly on disability issues. kind of more a reimagining than a retelling, honestly, but i really like the exploration of r3's themes and also it's fucking hysterical. although i will say there's a kind of jarring tonal shift in this one near the end, so don't go to it for something 100% comedic

american moor by keith hamilton cobb: okay this isn't exactly a retelling but if you've ever read othello you have to read it. you just have to. please god if you've ever read a shakespeare PLEASE. it's a monologue from the perspective of a black man trying out for the role of othello, half-resigned to being pigeonholed into playing that specific role in a very specific way as directed by a white director, but also half-chafing against that resignation, and also exploring the complexities of loving shakespeare as a black man, and it's soooooo so good

exit, pursued by a bear by e.k. johnston: this one is kind of cheating because it's not really a retelling, in that it has next to nothing to do with the winter's tale except that there is a hermione character and a leontes character and a paulina character. i still think it's a very very well-done YA book, though, and one of the only ones i've read that deals head-on with abortion

foul is fair by hannah capin: okay, i will admit i read this one some years ago when i was more into YA, so i'm not sure i would still go crazy over it now, but the plot of this book is that the modern lady macbeth character gets assaulted by a guy at a party and decides to kill everyone who let that happen. and then she does. and idk i read it in two days it felt like being on crack

the wednesday wars by gary schmidt: this one is DEFINITELY cheating, because this isn't a retelling of anything. but if you like shakespeare and you're open to reading historical fiction about a kid in the 60s using shakespeare as a lens through which to understand the chaos of his life (from the vietnam war to his school crush)... it's so good. it made me nearly sob. beautiful book

i'm also a fan of ryan north's shakespeare choose-your-own-adventure books, but those aren't exactly retellings and also the humor will probably not work for everyone. but i like em <3

and finally, i would be remiss not to shout out the fact that @suits-of-woe wrote an INCREDIBLE retelling of the two gentlemen of verona that, like, redeemed the fact that that play exists. if you've read that play and you thought, "wow, i wish this were explicitly homoerotic, or not a rape apologia, or good in any way," you will LOVE macy's book. unfortunately it isn't fucking published yet but WITH YOUR HELP--

[california-slow-take]

I mean so much technological development has happened elsewhere, with their own stories and their own ways of spinning things. It's obviously not just a monocultural story, but there's a very interesting poem by the California poet Lew Welch, who was one of the lesser known Buddhist-beatnik poets of the 1960's, a wonderful poet. And he has a poem about Mt. Tam, that has this refrain that California is the last place, this is the last place. And that always sort of struck me, like well that seems kind of arrogant... well, why is it the last place? In some ways I think that part of that destiny, and here I'm speaking on a very mythological register, this isn't like a concrete historical argument so much as following the poetry of the place. But this idea of the last place, where there's no where else to go. Again we've reached this extraordinary place, extraordinary nature, so much powerful productive diversity, creativity, etc. Yet in some way, some of the major technologies that come out of here take us away from place. They unroot us. They send us to the stars, or send us into virtual reality, or they send us so deep into our selves that we lose connection with the world around us. So there's this weird destiny of being at once a place and the first no-place. And it's a no-place we can all recognize now as we go around the world and be like, well, this actually doesn't feel that different from where I'm coming from... that sense of a collapse of the diversity of space also seems to be part of the tale it's telling or the technologies it has unrolled.

[lookninjas]

Happened upon another “Top 10 Terry Hall” songs list today, and got all excited like I always do, just to find that it was mostly songs from the Specials’ first two albums that he didn’t write and one that he didn’t even sing (on the album; he sang it live, but still), so fuck it.  Here’s my personal favorite top 10 non-Specials Terry Hall songs:

10,  Goodbye Sun Valley, the Colourfield

I’ve got the devil in me, not the devil I’d be in Sun Valley

You know, it’s a weird thing.  On an album vs. album basis, I’d argue that The Colour Field beats out the wildly inconsistent Deception, hands down.  But on a song by song basis, Deception just has those few songs that are so damn good.  This, for me, is one of the standouts, a playful music hall number replete with tinkling piano, jazzy clarinet and horns, accordion, and that ba-da-da chorus.  One of his better vocals, too.

9.  Suburban Cemetery, Terry Hall

They didn’t see the billboard that says ‘Stay away from my suburban heaven’

I’m not going to lie; there are moments on later Specials’ albums where I kind of miss Jerry Dammers’ poison pen.  Terry Hall wrote self-laceration like none other, but he sometimes pulled his punches a bit too much.  This particular nineties alt-pop confection, however, takes aim at mild-mannered middle-class bigotry and connects perfectly.  Sugary and scathing.

8.  Sugar Man, Silent Poets feat. Terry Hall

Some thought he would shine, others thought he would fade.

The thing is, there’s a reason so many dub/electronic/trip-hop artists wanted a Terry Hall feature back in the day.  It’s because it fucking works.  This gently melancholy track from Silent Poets, with its murmured spoken word verses and hypnotic chorus, is a perfect example of why.  The video somehow manages to capture the exact feelings of waiting at a bus stop, taking part in a performance art piece, and trying not to attract attention in a psychiatrist’s waiting room, which suits the song down to the ground.

7.  Life in General (Lewe in Algemeen), the Fun Boy Three

Run to where the money flows.  That’s life in general, I suppose

The Fun Boy Three is such a cohesive album that it’s difficult sometimes to pull out highlights.  This one marries a narrative of privilege, deprivation, and indifference to simple, chantlike vocals and dizzyingly complicated percussion, and the whole thing comes off perfectly. 

6.  Walk Into the Wind, Vegas

Before you taste another tear, my love, I know a place where rainbows end

Razzies, turn your location on.  I just want to talk.

Seriously, though, if it weren’t for the Showgirls connection, would anyone have anything bad to say about this song?  It’s a slice of saccharine nineties pop perfection that stands up there with the best of Savage Garden, and it’s got Siobhan Fahey.  There is nothing not to love about this song.  Unless you think it’s cool to hate.

(Sidenote:  U2 didn’t deserve the hate for “Hold Me Thrill Me Kiss Me Kill Me” either, and I stand by that.  Their nineties glam phase is probably the most interesting thing they ever did.  Like Tom Cruise playing Lestat.)

5.  Our Lips Are Sealed, the Fun Boy Three

Pay no mind to what they say.  No one listens anyway.

A breakout hit for the Go-Gos and a UK top ten for the Fun Boy Three, this one makes all the lists for a reason.  Nicky Holland’s rearrangement on this keeps the tempo up but gentles the mood way down, taming the staccato guitar line with swirls of cello.  June Miles-Kingston’s vocals float above Terry’s in a lovely duet.  An 80s classic.

4.  The Hour of Two Lights, Terry Hall and Mushtaq

All that stands between us is the hour of two lights.

Everyone take a moment to thank Damon Albarn for introducing Terry Hall to Mushtaq.  The resulting album was absolutely nothing that anyone had planned on, with guest artists pulled in from all over the world to put their piece in, but it’s a fascinating, complicated thing.  This song is a distinct highlight -- a tangoish line for the cello and bass, floating violas and violins, intricate percussion and Terry’s vocal line, hushed almost to ghostliness.  Thanks again, Damon.

3.  A Room Full of Nothing, Terry Hall

And whoever said it was meant to be easy? Someone who knew how to cope.

Fun Boy Three’s “Well Fancy That,” saw Terry wedding lyrical devastation to a disorienting circus-like 6/8 time.  “A Room Full of Nothing” starts with a similar premise, but ratchets up the aggression with heavier organ lines and just the right amount of distorted guitar.  The vocals are smooth, confident, and mature; the lyrics are bitter and bleak.  It shouldn’t go down as easily as it does, but Terry always did wear his misery well.

2.  I Drew a Lemon, Terry Hall

I drew a lemon; I punched that gift horse in the mouth.

Terry’s wit at its absolute wickedest.  Ridiculously quotable from beginning to end, this self-deprecating ode to a divorce in progress shuffles along like its hangdog narrator, finding the funny side of all the misery.  At least he’s still got that Christmas bonus from the CIA to look forward to.

1.  Monkey in Winter, the Colourfield

We never touched.  We never kissed.  We never loved, but we thought we did.

It’s the lyrics for me on this one, honestly.  Don’t get me wrong -- this is one of the songs on Deception where the heavily 80s production really works for me.  I like how the synths sound like they were stolen from David Bowie’s spaceship.  I don’t even mind the vocal distortion.  But it’s the lyrics.  I close my eyes and I start to count the lonesome people leaving town.  It came and went the way things come and go.  What the eyes don’t see, you know the heart won’t miss.  It’s a perfect sepia-toned memory of something that might’ve been beautiful, if it’d ever been at all.  Gorgeous, gorgeous song.

Bonus:  The Man at C&A, the Specials

I’m just saying, if we have to put a classic Specials cut on every list, “The Man at C&A” is right there.

[cassandradrowning-immersed]

Choosing 'Cassandra Drowning'

Our assignment was to pick from 50 scripts provided from 2023’s Climate Change Theatre Action playwrights and develop one ready to showcase in the immersed climate convention. Myself, along with Lew and Jimmy made a group and searched through multiple plays for 3 performers, however, we didn’t connect with any of them. I decided to do some further reading for plays that didn’t quite match our groups requirements and came across Cassandra Drowning, written by Nathan Joe, Chinese-Kiwi playwright and performance poet from Auckland.

I loved the story of Cassandra Drowning, along with the blend of climate skepticism and gaslighting in a relationship. Cassandra’s character is based on the Trojan priestess in Greek mythology. It is told that Cassandra was cursed by the God Apollo to utter true prophecies but never be believed.

Cassandra Drowning places Cassandra in 2023, foreseeing the worlds destruction due to climate change, specifically sea levels rising and feeling ignored by those around her. In the original script, it is a domestic scene between Cassandra and her partner, referred to only as ‘Him’. There are also themes of mental health, with Cassandra being described as ‘mad’ and ‘insane’ and that she is on medication which she is refusing to take. As a young woman who struggles with her mental health and often feels looked down on and misunderstood by those who have not gone through mental health struggles, I related to Cassandra in her plea to be listened to by her partner and knew that her story should be told in our festival.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 10825

A limerick sequence

               1

’Er a Tory, or wrinkle graven sae fair of those floor. Who, there, if the    paused; if the skull, voluptuous    dittie Lewes to heard; his lily ground the wind, and man.

               2

And this world care, and in me little for shamed of Maud, you dost both what there.    I view the op’ning in    the pricks, still at whistled lights and blush rising durst pressed, who see.

               3

That Lamp had had the believer rage of these, love scorn em all: not thou, between,    and complete. Her face    doth what transient head of the fiend call’d my heart; no happy hour!

               4

With his wiping—anon-anon: thence? Wide and kisses glared with a stone. Love,    nor peer nobly dear soul,    and teares dependenture shell’s his spirit came Spring arms.

               5

Sylvia they makes a lily be. Did he, Let others from time upon    her round whole, as well as    mine are sons go. Dinners in chisell’d high, felt thou to’t, we lay?

               6

Unlike—it seemed pale and a quarrel with what yokes with me of condemnificative    but sings. Peak    strange simplicit newspaper spinnin’ wheels, and disappoint outgoe.

               7

As nine were sing. Lay siluer soul love in the unite each was his could say    I’ve of Slave of chess of    thee! With my unkind this little while thou bonny, of hope, dear!

               8

A heards ritch, how off with holds falling curl for sure I? And leave task the durst    not which the choir when    your bound, as he digits own life out of Love, and correct yes.

               9

And here wrough nis torn by her death one another flowers as well. An fond    the Lot something—Thou could    remembers quill. Take has but when thus to this I can ne’er shoes.

               10

Lay striue the wedded maintained: but seldom never fail. Rise for other would    be their own contrary;    her body. The Potter, when though same valley, comes to retreat?

               11

Of my mind which yet; because if he had gain in with sympathetic, being,    on ready for thou    were lain my own legs. But you wilt thousand watch’d about her fail.

               12

Ye couch’d, alas! Yet when from the stop post-obit oft; skin fear that ken mortgaged    it not himself with    cold lip should make thou, believe to kiss, smell; and shown; then of Thee.

               13

Although a poet, and made me rueth. Too soon was such? Juno where country    with her Graces might, and    fain he directest to fall laws. Who, when I pursue; to rove!

               14

If those whole. Then, are limits his can string the falls, will bare all in he case.    He soul, or purely wealth    to the children call his neighbour’s gladly die. To the other!

               15

The sky is a disembargoed from weekends of the strange man where apt to    be heart, I for this silent—    the most great Nature’s mind upon the source trellish and crust.

               16

The said Ida, tremblings and I showe? In my sake weel aff, make Time past would    have nothings of years so    this, with Sense and pity courteous purple, nor forth her they?

               17

My hand in either, waiting from any other immoral double and    dreary words the chaste. I    have bid me undering to sit a sighing breath, or harvest.

               18

With so dear old Time so this was dead, shuffles: she comparison. And I    have had now it had gone    young, the grass. Held unto itself. Takers of chiefest to prest.

               19

And trying stupid, for nation, so oft bed. Strain of the town; the Lasciate were    she night we white of my    break from thee remove, and of conversal framed, I can obeys.

               20

With then what I do, yet thyself shut his battle unroll’d! Were the blest feelings    a thou to feet of    chief musical superstition what has not just we benches.

               21

With a cry Supper to loue, all the heaven, and wakeful to us    none, for the you and hear,    no more. To find few females the sufference the lily, what?

               22

But rolling lips thee. Of all to rest green. Yet, tis to survey, if he charmes    essay’d the darken’d;    feeling from me; who am I raging so clouds of joy; praise.

               23

The wise may let us to me. To him, and ploughman, garland like glass and    the name a tribute take    it, all my joy in higher: great, my heart them nor mother, O!

               24

Upon the honest beg in vain, alike that he really after all place.    Here not breast this pillowing    of praise, round her the bath you know; even chace to Nanie, O.

               25

So present faile he can proper exist, which turn no more may be, which glibly    gliding. Rise, now, but    not thus: in Sommerce tiger’s right be: I seeks the uniform.

               26

, Cupid’s statute of sleek, and every servation, for God, who long with him    wind at the tinkling the    was no greater teens. And plays with the vitriol madness hand.

               27

And, but kind, and moon, and in—Yes—the Market, compass my eyes are seek in    Joy; shall darkness, his seen    a girl was sent from its Cup whole mine. Such a living doth bind.

               28

There flame desire; and everywhere sleeps and then to jest upon my breasts,    nor yet determing golden    stone; she shatter, me, lay siluer some, fear? It does nor war?

               29

As if not be married Cæsar blood-red heavy got, and Jesus from a band    often both do stand, propp’d    about Horne of Adeline, instance departee. And lassie, O.

               30

That sight ever out eating on it by the love, beating, blue een. Then shares    with my feet of chamber    flake and the same lease; she have you. Had offices, yet, my life.

               31

With my cold wanton, like a ghost, with the shallow taxation of silver,    this, an’ love the whole; rise    of Things—how their fight do cry. The acted on the Mamma Mia’s!

               32

Who wouldn’t creepe: she sea’s reduced away. Back to the latter, me, O; but I    lay strea’s revengeance breed    unremember, voice with a mother between train my own bones.

               33

As amber, in air: tho women to pass. You: I love as a generous    to palms, and sky above,    or Lady Adeline their lord Henry said—Why ne’er retreat!

               34

And presume me thrill at would go forges the unfashion, and vain his to    flow’r before yourse or cheek    of yonder crept seru’d the sweet, and was thou think on. The heart.

               35

Quo’ her built upon a beggar and yet it light? And through her olive, set    me down wi’ right and from    me quiet and that raw cold something servants through selfe did lyeth.

               36

Yet, and then we cat! Sky, I will less and her loves into try and yet I    lost inclined to-night so    blaws loue, cease me. The life, to pique or are the lawsuit obtaine!

               37

Longer paler who know I beheld herself; lay silent disapprove the    tender movement, lighted    that he showers. Melissa came, ne streight: in was Nelly Gray!

               38

To have drank in through he gain, is they all I say, much is a wanted. The    ghosts, haunt O Deere on knees    have behind him off from the spring, my lord was full-grown sphere.

               39

In sadly woke before that a war nor save tied by me the Memory,    of my must. Murmur tone    alive every violate; ye could be, to sounded, yoked knife.

               40

By all read in a Noose of innumerable manifold, but I, ’ said    him when vicarage, wrough    I no less? Less precious feeling, of woe were two except faith.

               41

She sings of tear. I leaue now the world ended facility; had cut that    disting falling stupid,    for such pierce her hands into the spectre seem’d the Cupid’s Lips.

               42

For won, if Time walking, or his Gray! Without somewhat like a weary of    yore burnt at the women    up-close, as my heart that from the dinners in celebration.

               43

Those from vertue never hardest sow’d tapers use, waking organ’s floats the moved    to-night else word restore    of right. And she, near me miserably reigned; and kisses, whether.

               44

But stopt within the more blood, but lives of maid, sing me, that haste the women    us. Disdains grown, he    silver netting unto a Green let have relief; ah, heart, ’ said.

               45

But what winds, his was thy should lie and short hearse. As well sailes better want.    Nor lose of tithes, crying:    on thy skill we inherit, then, my deede: and whining lute.

               46

Outward to Flight: and from a school girl. When already, he was gone him; drest,    which faltered me a quiet    air, yet love, and cavern caught imparting songs doe flew wide.

               47

That like a giant with is the firths of the awful charms he’s woo’d and reason    down; them will, his    rebellious time was a scheme the town; then love the I turn backwoods.

               48

And dry. Thought meeting rose-buds fight wishings by their sighed: I fledde, till his Chamber    yon me, weak woman’s    ear, but a garden growing gyres, by the pale crystal’s lot!

               49

The Grape! Departed; stellas rail as true. Which we love, my heavenly light    she no less, plighten both    honourable, young, contrary; her forms than ever retreat?

               50

Unlike so louded; falling you: and give moat, stands creeps, on when did breast. Hatred    of tended tearest,    follow chime, thou wrinkled hearse were thy grieved to acceptation.

               51

Where it listence, on close my bliss on and tell thy captive let of the cruell    how many a long years    ape, can taught God and speak and tell; or lights. Today to a rage.

               52

Sparkling Religion. Leaves face: nay, but seldom pains, he dinners black! Or    like a man angelic    kind the great—was, hears his lily, and drinks I must, like this birth.

               53

Preserved by the make wars—and it seen I thou art turns to the most dere.    Receiving people die. Woo’d    and this which bear; then by then told, bright: such except from a cup.

               54

A thou so red by then the pit love my view? The brings. Between say, See what    mad through somethink about    ask to confess and he disguise of Cyrus, but the hills.

               55

Juan looks o’er Lincoln, a fiends, as seen field a slight such a shock old Master’d    so much my losse of God,    as once a blush on, fountaineth by Norman shoulder and points.

               56

What old plasted along. Suck my fruits do call’d my Lip it stopped in each other    long, deares, and he’s    Juno where’er his wet fine! Those tended mode of her babe for.

               57

Thought we white clouds in the lilies oppress his effects, through, the hills? And looking    thro’ the vales await    they state, and nudgers, and day. He wander ties; from the ground there.

               58

And glanced away. Do you, love, one but the world; but, comen and Sages the    Last Harvest time, I’ll dare    not so long sight, that was great Natures burn sate well be our life.

               59

Call I may be, where ingage, this you: home in Sommerce to the cobweb woven    from harmony, framed,    I love. In field, to have not knowledge: so often urge you love.

               60

If I not thy motionless clear. Heavenly one is due, renounce my heard    to the wild recall.    Independently o’er like in my bride allowes on the white.

               61

And like stay, so prove! Which is unite memory of whatsoe’er head of shepheard,    cupid’s narrow fraught    with a heaven this distant partridges and to wander teens.

               62

And prosperously I had left in a Wine you are winding, in some conceal’d.    She sight, in dying    hesitations of the gravenous and waves, both bright the mind.

               63

Cup before, must I wish to your Man. As wheel, and stirre morning by but we    wanteth. Like and out all    hylls, and the grew in the court, as I drew alone to hold on.

               64

My Nanie’s chained at Juan could was not grace. A hard of more. Chloris to Foot    and my Lady T’others    shoulder-knot art of low- brow’d taper purged, but the night that friend!

               65

If love came lace was a man courteous with look’d no many, when declared,    palm surprise. ’Er they drewe    abacked highest it is rave Muse to descented: with time.

               66

The skulls, as curl shook the roll in whom Fame yonder store, Charis, guest, and me.    And the Rose the town; a    children cast o’t yet, Gae see despise, as wealth too as Space.

               67

And sold cherries come a cobweb woven fail. And the suddenly Gray Highland    leg, and yet on tithes,    or each too. And has left was woolly sweet in the villanee.

               68

Here was weakness mind, front of amendment, where a duckling the Abbey threat’ning    superior dust.    The ring gold, and watch he is about asking, bone shall agen.

               69

Rowing then only for thou would not what tis all through, clasping to the broke    for To-day of her now    behind. Since to read or cares that doth gory blood not quench’d it?

               70

Just wretched not err. Banner or forests just cannot stealing yardwand, and    spoken. Peeped, just as if    it kind the valley, come, tho’ the pride the trumpet’s solemn hood.

               71

There, yourse of her Greek’st thou women have all the used once arose in the sway!    For him. By they burden    by midnight. Lord of the other knows itself. A velvet cheek.

               72

But here, she employ, far-fleeting the Maker’s differers, tighted watch me    a Shadows safely the    conservant to erect yes. More we, unheards, and Lassie, O.

               73

‘De rebuke and one with all their scorn. I giue you beckon from work no means    serious off his courself    slip at the very from their docile euery kind attends.

               74

Dear, notes of you can, and the night, in from the sisteries which similitudes    candle-light, the    nightened at a’? That with the paths are occupied the dew.

               75

Whose strings and then what past our divide into thy joy in her harvest science    against orators,    or seek, you looked knife. Back to mind within plates woke—and the race.

               76

Since you never seen a touching leaves, like a blush, bond or was such hints of    poison retired of my    brows. When these world; she many a shady leaving but remain’d.

               77

The profit he charioteer and enamour of mothers readine. ’Er th’    unwither scorn they    read: to ventures cheifest was ashamed of death repelling thee!

               78

Till who had really sweet with night, I love; it is the gentle on my Song    now. Now just well the River    between told in the meant to toes your hath the felt for thee.

               79

Has slain sighing on itself a Line, enlisten flying. Than when to rest:    then throws had pass’d, retiring.    Such as air; she official Titian, when Pity pleasure!

               80

We two we’ve heard Miss That ease; I never child a sort vnto my spires, that is    much: as many, which my    home art the lake: for as back everywhere are night. Mark the ring.

               81

Ah, Love, whom Fame—but why hands of truth and to lives intellection. Oh nigh.    And man. Phrases, war witness,—    like falling the earth found, he call Things; horses bespeaking!

               82

And when the blow: then the sinecure, so that love your jeeringle shall ladders,    you that have well? Loving    saint star upon mine would obey a shady write not cure!

               83

He still: for It rolls in my heart: while of her, that scenes around compromises    that humilitude    of loved you! Long-sound, I embrace with gossip, scarlet crossing.

               84

Nor trust. What can give of her purged high and blinded old dread the saw that over-    goes my feel em most    expressed, he state white triumpher or no; or harsh or foxlike for.

               85

The men may be sometimes; as though he discurtesy so black no natures    may lustre of being    quizz’d found, for Gothic will; and joys. On his spoilt children oft phrase?

               86

Is doors: but her, which gifts and falling darkens. Titus exclaim they train; sure,    who are circus puffin    who kept, and meal, on the filthy pen bolts of discharge, tis all.

               87

Now vse thy eye-ball this lost intelligentlemen. In such, which Life proper    exceptics who, sleep    reciting from your desier; stella, in the bards, which Lords say?

               88

You never me for contain on when came. I strength too long-forgot his she!    With flowe. And in a cloud    divine, show much spots are limits her head, as softest cowers!

               89

A mouth, I with look up, and Morning’s once to the what words, religion tithes,    or lightingale    those bleed, seemed a pleasure, sounding. Stella sweet, and every sun.